


Dawn

by WanderingStudent



Category: Avatar: Legend of Korra, Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DC Cinematic Universe, Justice League (2017), Man of Steel (2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Canon Bisexual Character, Canonical Character Death, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, F/F, Non-Canonical Character Death, Robin!Jinora, Slow Burn, Wolfbatman!Asami
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2018-05-02 17:20:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5257076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WanderingStudent/pseuds/WanderingStudent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'It was startling, to Asami, to see the Avatar so at ease amongst the people she'd almost left to die. She wielded such power with ease, with carelessness, and -</p><p>Asami doesn't think she's ever hated someone so much in her entire life.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Asami I

_Batman and Superman are property of Warner Bros. and DC Comics._

_Avatar: The Last Airbender and The Legend of Korra are propery of Nickelodeon and Viacom._

* * *

**_DAWN_ **

* * *

Asami is six when she loses her parents.

She runs, terrified, from her father's workshop, trying desperately to outrun the horrible, leatherwinged  _thing_  that screeches as it follows her. Hiroshi follows her out, exasperated but nonetheless concerned as his screaming daughter bolts through the back door of the manor's kitchen. The next fifteen minutes are a hell in and of themselves, as Hiroshi turns the house upside down in his search for his disappeared daughter.

Finally, Hiroshi finds her cowering underneath a chair in his study and flinching at every small noise. He kneels, peering beneath the seat.

"Asami, it's alright. You can come out…" he murmurs, voice soft.

"Don' wanna," the child murmurs, shaking her head vigorously.

"Asami – that wolfbat meant no harm. It flew into the workshop by accident, and it didn't know how to get out. It was afraid."

Asami frowns, the concept seemingly unfamiliar to her. "Scary things get afraid?"

Hiroshi nods, a small smile on his face. "All things do."

"Even the scary ones?"

"Especially the scary ones," Hiroshi murmurs, before reaching out for her. "Now, come on – your mother's made dinner for the both of us. And I don't want to keep her waiting…"

* * *

Asami feels afraid, she knows that much.

She steps out into the corridor, the carpet soft under her tiny feet. There's the smell of smoke in the air, and something else – Asami can only remember whenever her father tried his hand at cooking and burnt a large steak.

As she makes her way down the corridor, she notices things, in the low light – the odd scorch mark here and there, tables and cabinets upturned, their contents scattered across the floor in front of her. She steps over them carefully as she navigates towards her parent's room, hoping that she can spend the night hidden away in their arms.

She hears her father's voice first, loud and hoarse and terrible, as he screams his wife's name. Asami shrinks back from the open door, wincing, and only then realises that the door is hanging off of one hinge, its lock broken off. That burnt smell is strong now, impossible to ignore.

Asami reaches out to grab the doorframe, to peek in timidly, when she hears a rush of air, and the bedroom lights up with vivid orange. Her father screams in agony, and Asami cowers behind the doorframe until he stops. Slow footsteps come towards her, and she looks up. Stepping out of the doorway is a tall, reedy dark haired man, with a thin moustache and cruel, narrowed eyes. He stinks of smoke, and Asami slowly backs away from him, terrified.

The man smirks in the darkness, his teeth gleaming, and then disappears down the corridor, out of sight, a shadow melting into the darkness. Asami turns back to the doorway, and swallows, stepping into the room.

Asami looks at the bed, at the two charred forms that lie upon blackened sheets, and her entire world falls apart.

* * *

Asami's bundled up with a shock blanket, curled up on a chair in the police station. She only knows that it's the police station because her father had brought her along once.. The memory triggers another flash of the horribly burnt bodies, and her stomach twists, almost as if it's trying to tear itself apart.

In the background, she can hear the officers talking, but only a few of the conversations draw her attention.

"-Six years old,  _spirits –_ "

"-Agni Kai hit, no doubt. We'll go through Sato's employment records, look for ties-"

"-Got in through an unlocked door, the kitchen, most likely-"

Asami stiffens, horrific realisation chilling her to the bone. She stares ahead, blankly, her fingers clutching the shock blanket so tightly her nails are beginning to tear into the material. A few minutes later, one of the officers kneels in front of her.

"Hey, kid."

The woman's voice is low and weary, and Asami looks at her. The officer's hair is raven-black, but marred with prominent streaks of grey. There are two parallel scars running down one cheek, the deep lines distracting Asami for a moment.

"I'm Captain Beifong. Is there anything I can get you? Anything you need?"

Asami looks away, drawing in on herself, and Lin's mouth tightens.

"Who is he?"

The question catches Lin off-guard, but she replies quickly enough.

"We don't know. We think he's with a bending triad, most likely the Agni Kais."

It's not the answer the child is looking for, Lin knows this, but it's the only answer she has at the moment.

"…Why did he do it?" Asami murmurs, her voice cracking. Lin acts on instinct, police force posturing be damned, and draws the child into her arms.

"I don't know," Lin replies. "…And I'm sorry."

Asami cries quietly for the rest of the night.

* * *

The next six years are a blur for Asami. Her father's money shuffles her from boarding school to boarding school, to a chorus of  _incredibly gifted, but fails to apply herself_ and  _a distracted, disruptive child._

Asami could care less how she does in school. The needlessly complicated calculus and the flowery, turgid poetry that saturates her curriculum utterly fails to interest her. The only time she has ever felt truly engaged was on a field trip to a Cabbage Car factory, unable to take her eyes off the engineers assembling the automobiles in front of her. However, any mention of a desire to work with them is instantly dismissed. Asami is, according to her teachers, to be trained for a bright future in her late father's industrial empire, but behind a desk - not on the assembly line, much less in any kind of workshop.

With every week spent memorising useless fluff, Asami feels like her connection to her father is slipping away. The thought that these people are denying Asami her heritage makes her blood boil, and Asami finds herself sent to the principal's office with an increasing frequency, her hair tousled and the blood of her playground tormentors on her knuckles.

Finally, after she knocks out a girl's front teeth, she's expelled. Asami lets out a sigh of relief as the principal roars in her face, and prays, as she leaves the school grounds, that the next school will be at least interesting.

A man is waiting for her beside the gates, and Asami turns to face him, her hands balling up into fists on instinct. His face is hidden by a hood, and he does not speak. Asami watches with narrowed eyes as he reaches into his coat, withdrawing a sealed envelope. Asami takes it with curious fingers, and glances down at it. When she looks up again, the man is gone, having seemingly vanished.

She opens the letter, and reads. Later that night, she packs a bag and charters a taxi.

The letter gave an address, and promised one thing –  _that she would find what she was looking for._ Dully, Asami thinks she may have acted too hastily, as her taxi pulls up beside a dilapidated, seemingly empty building _,_ but she'd rather eat her own tongue than spend another minute being juggled by the social system.

"You sure you want to get out here?" The driver asks, voice cautious.

"Yeah. Thanks," Asami replies, handing him a crumpled mess of notes that could easily pay for several more trips. The driver's eyes light up, and he nods to her, before driving away, leaving her alone on the evening street, the skeleton of a building behind her.

She walks over to the door, and knocks precisely five times, as the letter told her to. The door unlocks with a click, and drifts open with a long, painful creak. She steps in, hesitantly, and looks around, peering through the darkness.

"I see you received my invitation," A voice from the blackness calls. Asami stiffens, and looks down the length of the hallway, searching for the source of the voice.

"Who are you?" Asami asks, cursing the tiny spike of fear that colours her voice.

"I was an old friend of your father's. I was terribly saddened to hear what happened to him – and to your mother, as well," the voice says. "They were fine people."

Asami swallows, her gaze dropping to the floor for a moment. "They were my parents," she breathes.

"Then let me ask you something," the voice says. Out of the darkness steps a tall, hooded man, his face hidden by a porcelain white mask. "Why did you come? What are you seeking?"

Asami meets the man's gaze, her expression hardening.

"I seek…revenge."

* * *

Amon assigns her to a tiny group of recruits, men and women far older than her who barely spare her a passing glance. Their words are brusque and rough, and even when a few act on their paternal or maternal instincts, Asami brushes them off callously. She does this without any hesitation, any remorse – no one will ever replace her parents in her mind. Asami tells herself that her solitude is a small inconveinience on the road to her reward.

In the morning, Asami trains her body, and when she feels she can go on no longer and her legs threaten to give way between her, she summons the memories of that night, imagines the smell and sight of charred flesh overwhelming her senses. She resumes the bruising sparring and conditioning with a hardness in her eyes that makes even her instructors flinch.

In the evening, Asami trains her mind, and Amon provides her with a complete education on mathematics, politics, and most importantly, engineering. Asami fails to hide her delight when the textbooks are finally delivered to her, and spends the rest of the night reading, despite her aching muscles. She feels a little closer to her father, afterwards, and sleeps peacefully.

At the end of every week, Amon holds seminars on the Equalist way, powerful speeches and rhetoric that pierce all the way to the core of Asami's being. Promises of equality, of vindication, of  _justice_ for her parents drive her onward as she steadily eclipses her peers in skill and strength.

By the tender age of fourteen, there are few in sparring that can pin her down, and those that do tire quickly.

Her skill doesn't go unnoticed. Amon arrives in the gym one morning, the men and women parting before him as he moves down the middle of the room, towards Asami. He tells her she's being reassigned to a new, elite unit, and Asami barely manages to hide the raw, primal joy that races through her.

She feels a little deflated, the next day. The elite unit is a completely different animal – their sparring sessions leave Asami aching in a way she hasn't since she first joined, and they bat aside her practiced techniques easily. Her peers are even less accepting of her than her original group was, and they only add to the fear and doubt gnawing at the back of her mind, whispering that she's  _out of her depth, unworthy._

Asami tries to pay such thoughts no attention.

Afterwards, Asami is introduced to a new form of balance training – a series of upturned wooden poles, each half a meter apart. She stands atop two, looking around cluelessly for a moment, before out of nowhere, her training partners begin to batter her with quarterstaffs. Within moments, Asami has fallen off, but the bruises blooming on her arms and chest can't possibly compare to the damage her ego's taken.

Amon arrives later that day, scrutinising each of the men and women. Asami can  _feel_ his eyes tracing the new bruises, the cut lip, the treacherous marks of her inexperience. He stares at her for several moments, before moving on, silent.

That night, she's kept awake by the image of her parent's corpses, of the firebender disappearing into the blackness, far beyond her reach.

The next morning, Asami promises herself that Amon will  _never_ look at her with dissatisfaction, not again. She forces herself to break the old, comfortable routines she has fallen into, wills herself to adapt. She cannot,  _will not_  let this break her.

The next time she approaches the wooden poles, she lasts only ten seconds, but that is five more than previous. Asami resolves to last twenty next time.

Slowly, steadily, Asami conquers the elite training just as she had the regular. The men and women of the unit watch her with rapt attention, but Asami doesn't care about them.

She strives only for attention from Amon himself.

A staff catches her in the stomach, forcing her back. Asami puts her weight on her front leg, and lets her back leg reach out, finding a pole behind her. Another staff hits the back of her front leg, and her steady stance crumples, but she catches herself on the way down, hands on poles to the left and right of her.

Her training partners all but beat her to death in their attempt to knock her down, but Asami does not drop to the ground, does not fall off. It is only when Amon calls for an end to the exercise do they stop.

This time, when Amon looks her over, there is approval in his eyes.

Asami's satisfaction is tangible.

* * *

Asami is eighteen now, all but the faintest traces of baby fat and innocence lost to the rigours of training, replaced with a hardened body and a disciplined mind. She is something every Equalist strives to be, her mind and body repurposed to serve the revolution. Amon tells her she is the genius that will drive their war effort – she designs new motorcycles, new automobiles that would make her father proud.

The Equalist movement is blossoming into something massive, something beautiful, its numbers swelling at an increasing rate. In the absence of the Avatar, the lost and vulnerable flock to Amon, eagerly lapping up his promises of a bright, fair future.

Still, Amon's promises aren't enough. Asami isn't satisfied by mere  _promises_ any more – she wants results. One night, she dreams of a world where a non-bender could hold the power of lightning in their hands, and sketches new schematics. The design becomes her life, and she shouts for joy when the prototype glove's pressure pad finally glows with an electrical charge.

Amon comes to her room some weeks later, intending to reprimand her for ignoring her training, but when Asami shows him the glove, his eyes light up with rare joy.

Once the design has been perfected, it is mass-produced, and as Asami watches trainees practice techniques with the glove on training dummies, she can almost feel her mother resting a spectral hand on her shoulder, whispering how proud she is of her daughter.

Soon after, Amon takes her in as his personal disciple, and Asami discovers that she still has far more to learn. To further develop her combat skills, Amon teaches her a multitude of styles he has mastered. Asami learns to mix her rigid, aggressive style with flowing, graceful Kyoshijutsu, and develops a new method of movement based on what Amon knows of airbending forms.

As the two recover from their training sessions, they exchange their ideas, their dreams for the future of the movement. Amon himself is pleasantly surprised to find that Asami has developed a strong set of beliefs, and the capability to argue for them, passionately and at length. Conversely, Asami learns that Amon is not so above it all as she once believed. When he isn't leading a revolution or inspiring his men, he is something of a poet, well versed in classics both musical and theatrical. One night, Asami jokes that Amon's not at all the man she thought he once was.

"Amon is not a man," he muses, sitting across from Asami one night. "Amon is an ideal – something incorruptible and everlasting. This mask," he indicates the white mask on his face, "Is more Amon than I am."

"But Amon's nothing without your skills," Asami retorts, frowning. "Without your knowledge and charisma. The Equalists would be nothing without the man under the mask."

"Perhaps," Amon nods, eyes crinkling with a smile hidden behind the mask. "But now the Equalists number in the thousands. The mere idea of Amon is enough to drive them onwards at this point. Whatever strengths I have, my mind and my body, they're dwarfed by the power of this symbol. This symbol can do many things, Asami – it can inspire people, or put the fear of the almighty in them."

Asami sits back, nodding slowly. She thinks she understands her leader a little better now. He's not a machine, not invincible, but he is a vessel for something that  _is._

* * *

Some weeks later, she and Amon are discussing the merits of the recent reinterpretation of  _Love Amongst the Dragons,_ when he finally reveals something to her.

"The Equalists will mount their first attack at the end of next week," Amon murmurs. "We're going after the triads."

Asami's mind races, anticipation and apprehension blending together into one indecipherable mix. She can only look at Amon questioningly, silently asking him to elaborate further.

"I'll be making the official announcement in the morning, but I thought you should know first."

"Why?" Asami replies, curious.

"We'll be assaulting an Agni Kai building," Amon says, watching as Asami stiffens. "I wanted to know if you wanted to join the Lieutenant in leading the operation."

Asami thinks hard, but it's difficult – old memories surge back to the surface, marring the night's casual atmosphere. She can hear her father's scream, smell the burning flesh –

"Asami!"

It only occurs to Asami then that she has been staring dully into space for several minutes, and Amon has been trying to get her attention for two. She meets his gaze, and nods silently.

"Are you sure?" He asks, voice careful and understanding.

"Yes," Asami replies, voice steady. "This is something I need to do."

* * *

As much as Asami's apprehensive about what's about to happen, she can't deny that there's an unmatched thrill of bounding over rooftops, flanked by peers, racing towards her destiny. They dance across the city, eventually coming upon the Agni Kai's stronghold in an unassuming, middle-class area.

The assembled group watches, hidden on an opposite rooftop, as Asami slips by the outdoor security, silent and unseen. She reaches the back of the building, and her hands move to her belt, opening one of its large pouches. Asami withdraws a small maintenance kit, before setting about cutting the power to the building.

Within moments, the windows darken, the sound of chairs scraping back in surprise and triad members shouting only barely muffled by the thin walls. From on their hiding spot on the opposite building, the Equalists emerge, climbing down its face and scuttling across the street, nearly invisible in the night.

Some take their positions beside Asami at the rear of the building, another at the front, and a group led by the Lieutenant climbs onto the roof, ready to invade from above.

"We're in place. We await your order," a small, wiry female mutters at Asami's side.

Asami stares ahead at the door, and closes her eyes, inhaling deeply. She swallows her fear, swallows the burning flesh and the screaming and the wolfbat in the workshop.

She opens her eyes.

"Go," Asami grunts, lunging forward and kicking out. The door is knocked clean off its cheap hinges, and Asami reaches into her belt again, hurling smokebombs into the rooms beyond. They charge into the manmade fog blind, relying only on their sense of hearing to find their prey, knocking down any human obstacles with knuckle and shin.

As they advance, faint glows illuminate the smoke around them. The darkness and smoke has done more than just mask the Equalist attack – it has marked nearly every single bender in the building, as they instinctively try to light up the space around themselves.

The Equalists move with newfound direction, chi-blocking the benders and disabling any non-bender cohorts. Asami is in the middle of the fray, dodging violent flares of flame and shocking any attacker into unconsciousness with her glove. She can hear screams and shouts of panic, mostly from the triad members, but occasionally, one of her group lets out a pained sound, and she looks around, distracted for a moment, only to receive superficial burns for her inattention.

Asami presses on, leaving her group behind. She tells herself they are doing their job so she can do hers, but she knows she is less of a leader for doing so. She moves up onto the first floor, which is far quieter than the floor below, almost silent. She looks around for any errant triad members, but only ends up running into fellow Equalists standing over them.

Resolving to sweep the top floor before she returns to the bottom, Asami dashes up the next staircase, footfalls feather-light, and moves onto a nearly pitch-black landing. She looks around, straining her eyes and ears, but can find nothing. She sighs, and turns back to the stairs, when a tall, unassuming closet to her right explodes outward, a triad member hurling flame towards her with a roar.

Asami barely manages to dodge the attack, rolling under it and hammering his chi points as quickly as she can, her knuckles fumbling a few hits. She pins him to the ground regardless, and he struggles and snarls beneath her. "Stay down," Asami growls. He refuses to stop, and Asami grabs his hair, pulling his head back up. She glances at his face, and freezes.

Even though it's been close to twelve years, he hasn't changed. Those eyes are just like she remembers, the same eyes that have haunted her nightmares for so very long. The same eyes, the same hair, the same stupid moustache, the same  _everything._  Asami recoils in shock, moving away from the man and staring at him in disbelief and – fear?

Even though she has effortlessly fought her way through a building full of firebending triads, the sight of her parent's killer fills her with irrational terror, not at all like the fury she thought she would feel.

By the time she comes back to reality, the lightning is already flying at her face. She reels back, realising that it's too close to dodge. Asami's breath catches in her throat – and she watches as the lightning goes wide, passing her by and instead striking the wall behind her, leaving a deep, blackened scar.

The Lieutenant is upon her parent's murderer, mercilessly beating the man around the face with his fists. Asami watches, still languishing in the loosening grip of shock, as he draws back and electrifies his Kali sticks. The Lieutenant holds them to the man's chest, and the triad member lets out horrific, gargling screams that Asami knows she will never forget.

Ten seconds later, the Lieutenant steps off the smoking corpse, and looks over at Asami. "Looks like I did have to pull your ass out of the fire after all. We're nearly finished downstairs, just loading the benders into a van now."

Asami nods dumbly, and waves the Lieutenant off. As he disappears downstairs, she approaches the dead man before her, careful. Asami supposes she should feel something like satisfaction, or vindication, but instead there's the jarring absence of any real feeling whatsoever.

She crouches down, scrutinising the features frozen in excruciating horror, the two blackened marks where the Lieutenant had pressed his sticks into the man's chest.

Asami catches a whiff of something, and struggles to discern what it is. She leans in closer, and it's suddenly  _there._ The stench of charred flesh, of  _death_ floods the room, and Asami feels bile rise in her throat. She tears her mask off and empties her stomach mere meters from her parent's killer, any idea of righteous vengeance crushed by the vivid reality of murder.

* * *

She returns to the base by herself, unable to sit in the Lieutenant's immediate area for any length of time. No one batted an eye when the Lieutenant said he'd saved Asami's life by killing her attacker; most actually approved of his quick thinking and decisive action. Their sheer disregard for human life chills Asami to the bone, the thought that men and women she had trained beside could be so heartless.

Asami had long imagined that some blood would inevitably be spilt during the revolution, but always in service of the greater good, to bring the world into a bright future. But any attempt to justify the murder, to stir up the old, comfortable feelings of  _us versus them_ , of the evils of bending oppression only pulls her back in front of that smoking corpse.

She stumbles into her room, slowly removing her uniform piece by piece, leaving a trail all the way to her bed. Asami sits, clad only in her underwear, and stares ahead blankly. Some time later, Asami tries to go to sleep, but her mind echoes with the terrifying thought that the revolution she has dedicated her life to will only result in more murder. She has no idea what to do – to stay with the Equalists and Amon, and become complicit in more murder, or leave. But.

There is nothing out there in the world that even faintly interests her, save for the thin, vain hope of making her father's company her own again, and building her own legacy. And even then, the prospects seem somewhat hollow.

She gets up, and begins to pace around her room, running her hands through her hair.  _But I can't stay here. I can't,_ she tells herself.  _There's nothing keeping me here. The man's dead, now. Isn't that justice? Isn't that what I wanted?_

She finds herself sitting down at her tiny desk. A sheet of blank paper seems to beckon her, and she reaches out to it hesitantly, before grabbing it and beginning to write. She spends the next two hours writing, constantly looking back over her words and amending or crossing them out. By the end of it, she's exhausted, and collapses into bed, falling asleep with ease this time.

The next morning, she walks into Amon's study, silent and dressed in cheap, casual clothes. Amon is absent, most likely overseeing a training session somewhere else in the facility.

Asami glances around for a moment, before pulling the folded sheet of paper out of her pocket and dropping it on the table. She lets out a deep breath, and prays Amon will understand. After all, they know each other, and Asami trusts Amon.

She hopes he'll trust her.

"He'll understand," she murmurs to herself, over and over as she walks out of the office, and back towards her room. She pulls out a duffel bag, and begins to pack the few items of note in her room; sketchbooks and journals, a few outfits that she had picked up during the last year, and her own personal shock glove – but otherwise, no momentos. Nothing to tie her down, or make her feel guilty for what she's about to do.

Minutes later, she walks out of the Equalist base, bag slung over her shoulder, and rejoins the rest of the world.

* * *

She'd almost forgotten how bright camera flashes were. The paparazzi attack Asami from all sides as she strides out of the Future Industries building, towards a chauffeured satomobile. The meeting that took place mere minutes ago constantly replays through her mind, over and over.

The board of directors had hidden shock, disapproval – and a hint of fear behind easy, practiced smiles. But Asami can see right through them.

After all, she knows a performance when she sees one.

It's painfully obvious after several minutes of meaningless back-and-forth chatter that they mean to pawn her off to some high-level administration position, and leave her there to rot – they use sugary-sweet tones to deliver excuses like  _times of severe economic distress_ and  _unfortunate lack of experience_. In all honesty, she knows she shouldn't have expected anything else.

Still, she means to wrest back control of her father's company. She wants to at least control  _something_ in her life, and then maybe she can use that control to make the world a little more just.

A little more  _equal._

Asami makes her points quite clear – that this is her father's company and soon it will be  _hers,_ and when it is there will be  _quite a few changes._ The board tries not to appear too uncomfortable, but Asami can see right through them.

As the luxury satomobile wheels through the gates of the Sato – of  _her_ estate, she looks up at the massive house waiting for her on top of the hill. A faint dusting of snow lines the rooftop, and as Asami steps out of the car, she sees her breath mist away in front of her.

She knows that somewhere in that house,  _that room_  is waiting for her. But Asami knows that she is not nearly ready for  _it._

That night, she sleeps in the lounge, curled up in a seat and unwilling to even ascend the first flight of stairs. Across from her, light and heat crackle in the fireplace; one she'd only conceded to light after she began shivering.

She only enjoys what feels like a few moments of slumber before the image of her parent's charred corpses pulls her into lucidity again. She groans, and stumbines out of her chair, onto the floor, staring down at the richly coloured carpet.

 _Why?_ She asks herself, pleading.  _Why won't it stop? What will stop it?_

* * *

An hour later, she drives into town, clad in heavy, worn clothes, makeup carefully applied to simulate a pockmarked, scarred complexion. Her hair is hidden under a tight, woollen cap, but it bulges slightly with the sheer volume of hair.

Asami keeps driving until she reaches what she remembers is the edge of Triple Threat territory, and then stops the car. She walks without direction, gloved hands stuffed in the pockets of her jacket. Around her, the city morphs into something seedier, rougher.

Asami almost doesn't notice the four-foot nothing girl until she nearly knocks her over. The girl turns, and Asami feels something like revulsion in the way the girl's made up, her face too young to be marred with that much makeup, to have her hips cocked like that.

"Cheer you up?" The girl offers, trying a sly smile. Asami doesn't return it.

"How old are you?" Asami asks, out of morbid curiosity.

"As young as you want me to be –" The girl cries out as an older, larger man, seizes her by her dark hair, and begins to drag her back.

"Stupid  _bitch,"_ he hisses. "You trying to put me out of business?"

"But I did exactly what you said!" The girl pleads, paling as the man draws one hand back.

"Actually," Asami grunts, as she grasps the man's hand and twists it back behind him, "I think you're finished with her."

The man gasps in surprise, and then shouts, struggling out of her grasp. He takes an earthbending stance, his eyes furious. He lunges forward, sending a clump of rock towards Asami, who effortlessly sidesteps it. She puts him on the ground in seconds, her knee coming up into his jaw and sending him to the ground.

Suddenly, there's a sharp, stinging pain in her left thigh – Asami looks down to see the girl digging an ice dagger into her leg.

 _Waterbender_ , Asami realises.  _Why didn't I see –_

"C'mon! Get him!" The tiny girl screeches.

As nearly every bender in the entire block descends upon her, Asami cracks a tiny smile.

_At least the disguise worked._

* * *

An hour later, Asami stumbles out of her car, after coming to a stop by way of the now half-destroyed garage door, and onto the freezing driveway of the Sato mansion. She leaves a bloody trail as she limps into the house, the snow rapidly staining red. Every muscle in her body isn't just aching, it's on  _fire._ Several cuts on her arm and leg continue to bleed, and the old, heavy jacket she wears is covered in burn marks. Her knuckles too are bleeding, momentos of a frighteningly narrow victory.

 _It's not enough,_ Asami realises, as she walks through the darkened foyer.  _Skill and strength against so much power. I just can't win._

_They weren't afraid of me._

She moves into the lounge, now freezing, the fireplace extinguished. Asami collapses into the nearest chair, and closes her eyes, trying to ignore the mass of pain her body's become. Finally, she opens her eyes again, and looks up, above the fireplace. Her mother and father stare back at her through timeless watercolour, their faces young and jubilant. Asami focuses on the smiling face of Hiroshi Sato, letting out a shaking breath.

 _I failed you, Father. I can't even protect a single soul._ Asami's face twists with grief and remorse, and she grinds her teeth in pain.

_I tried to wait._

_I've tried to endure this…hollow life._

_I could leave it now, if I wanted. I could die in this chair._

_But I can't. Not without knowing. What do I need? What do I use? How do I make them afraid?_

Asami looks to her side, at the phone resting on the coffee table.

_Your money can buy doctors, healers. They can be here in mere minutes. Another of your gifts to me, Father._

_But I'd rather die than wait another hour._

_I've already waited twelve years…_

_Twelve years since all sense left my life…_

Without warning, it comes – a screeching, winged form crashes through the window to Asami's right. Her eyes, wide with surprise, follow it, watching as the wolfbat finally stops, perching on the mantle just below the portrait.

 _I've seen it before,_ Asami realises.  _It frightened me, as a girl…_

_Frightened me…_

Amon's words echo through her mind.  _This symbol can do many things, Asami – it can inspire people, or put the fear of the almighty in them._

Asami's face hardens, and she stares at the wolfbat, watching as it stares back, screeching at her.

_Yes, Father._


	2. Korra I

_Batman and Superman are property of Warner Bros. and DC Comics._

_Avatar: The Last Airbender and The Legend of Korra are propery of Nickelodeon and Viacom._

* * *

**_DAWN_ **

* * *

Korra is four when they first find out.

Martha is woken by the sound of her daughter’s shill screams and Hank’s raucous barking drifting in through the window, taking only a few seconds to stir before she’s bolting out of the bedroom in her nightgown. Jonathan's only just beginning to stir - by the time she hears his footsteps thudding across the top floor, following her, she’s opening the door and rushing out onto the porch.

The old oak tree is in flames, only fifty or so feet away from the house, the vivid orange glow stretching up into the midnight sky. Martha takes a step back, cringing from the intense heat, before another scream overrides her survival instinct and brings her closer to the flaming oak. She shields her face with her arms, the heat nearly all-encompassing.

“Korra? Korra, where are you? _Korra_!” Martha screams, as the flaming tree’s tallest branches, only a meter or so shy of the house, begin to snap and tumble down to the earth.

_“Mommy!”_

Martha looks around for the source of her daughter’s voice, as Jonathan runs out onto the porch, letting out a fearful curse.

“Martha,” Jonathan shouts, voice laced with rare terror, “ _where is she?_ ”

The two spend a hellish minute ducking around the infernal oak, before Hank’s barking draws them behind the barn several hundred feet away from the house. Korra’s curled into a ball, nestled between two spare tires as the dog rushes back and forth in front of her.

Martha scoops Korra up into her arms, feeling her daughter’s arms lock tight across her neck, and turns back to face the tree. Korra cringes, turning away from the fire and shutting her eyes tight, her tiny body still shaking with fear.

The next half hour is spent outside the house, waiting for the fire brigade as Martha, Jonathan and Korra watch the tree crumble, Hank curled at their feet. They silently pray that an errant gust of wind won’t send a flaming branch at their very wooden house, or anywhere near the cornfields beside the driveway.

They watch the inferno with a mix of awe and bitter confusion, and when the fire engine finally pulls into view, sirens screaming against the early morning light, the family lets out a collective sigh of relief. But, despite the fact that the house and the cornfields are undamaged, they can’t help but feel some kind of loss at the sight of the blackened husk where the grand old tree once stood.

They attempt to put Korra back to bed once the fire crew leaves, but she doesn’t sleep a wink, and neither do Martha or Jonathan. The fire has them on edge, and the only thing they can do is force themselves back into tried and tested routines in an attempt to ride it out. Jonathan and Martha sip black coffee at the kitchen table, and when Korra pads down the stairs, rubbing tired eyes and clutching a worn plush polar bear, they merely push out a chair for her, watching as she climbs onto it.

Her face is a mask of fatigue, which is understandable – but there’s something else that confuses both parents; guilt. It’s writ large across her body language, how she avoids eye contact, how any attempts to strike up a conversation receive one syllable replies. The two parents wind up staring their daughter down for several hellish minutes, watching as she works up the courage to reveal whatever’s torturing her.

Finally, Korra holds out a palm, a single, bright flame blossoming to life. Martha shifts back in her chair, swallowing down her perfectly rational shock, whilst Jonathan’s expression merely hardens.

“I did it,” Korra murmurs, meekly. “I burned it.”

* * *

Korra’s circumstances are exceptional, both Jonathan and Martha _know_ this – and they aren’t about to hand Korra over to any kind of agency or social service. They’re parents, and Korra is their _child,_ simple as that. And they’ll be with Korra no matter where that fire in her palm takes her.

However, that doesn’t mean they can just smile and hug their way through this – there is the very real fact that their daughter can start fires with her _mind_. And short of letting their house burn down the next time Korra has a nightmare or throws a tantrum, or never letting her out of the house again, they’re left with the intimidating, unfathomable recourse of training Korra to control this strange, otherworldly power.

Jonathan and Martha waste weeks going over possible methods for helping Korra establish control, but the fact that they have no idea how Korra produces or manipulates the fire undermines every attempt.

Finally, when a rolling blackout leaves Smallville in darkness, inspiration strikes. The family moves around the house with candles carefully balanced in coffee mugs, and when Korra accidentally stumbles into the curtains in the living room, dislodging dust, she sneezes – and the flame of Martha’s candle bursts with life, rising several feet into the air. She screams in shock, barely managing to hold onto the candle, but Jonathan’s eyes light up with something more than candlelight.

The next morning, Jonathan sits down with Korra at the kitchen table, a lit candle placed in front of her. It becomes readily apparent that the flame rises and falls with Korra’s breaths, and Jonathan challenges Korra to keep the flame at a steady, low level, then high, and then low again.

Korra catches on surprisingly quick, and the family celebrates with a sickly sweet treat at the nearest ice cream parlour - which happens to be halfway between Smallville and Metropolis. Usually, the cost of gas alone would make Jonathan and Martha pale, even on their best day, but this is different – this is the first scrap of refreshing normalcy in a world that was steadily slipping from their grasp. 

Then, later that night, Korra drenches Martha as she splashes around in the bath, sending a tendril of water snaking around the ceiling of the bath before it crashes down. Martha comes down the stairs trailing water, leaving a laughing, oblivious Korra behind her, and locks eyes with Jonathan.

“Guess what?” 

In response, Jonathan simply sighs.

* * *

They end up making games of it all. Korra’s a competitive, precocious child, and they reason that if Korra knows _how_ to send a globe of water or a clump of earth through a hoop, she should know _how not_ to. If Korra can juggle building blocks along air currents and have a battery of candles rise and fall with her off key singing, her fine control should be enough that Martha doesn’t get a phone call saying that Korra’s blown off the ceiling off the kindergarden with a miniature cyclone. It gives them the reassurance that she can sneeze whilst playing with Hank and won't set the poor dog alight.

And for several, blissful years, things go almost completely according to plan. There are no incidents, no phone calls, no accusations of _witch_ or _antichrist_ or _demon child_ – although if Korra’s report cards are anything to go by, Martha reasons she doesn’t need to bend fire to her will for that particular accolade. Despite everything, the years pass by, painfully normal.

It doesn’t last.

* * *

Korra’s fourteen, and awfully teenage, but instead of temper tantrums and blasting loud music, she to brood on a wide variety of topics, ranging from the fact that her abilities make her fundamentally different from the rest of the human race, to the question of _what exactly was Pete trying to get Lucy to do behind the gym shed?_

After a long, boring summer day spent sequestered in stuffy classrooms, Korra sits alone on the school bus, staring out the window at the sun hanging lazily in the sky. The other teenagers chatter eagerly around her, whilst all Korra does is count the stops left until they reach her house.

Finally, Pete Ross, rotund and red of hair, seems to grow tired of the contemplative loner act.

He slaps Korra on the shoulder, and she flinches, turning to face him.

“So,” Pete chirps, glancing between her and Lana, who’s doing her very best to remain unseen – Korra sympathises – “you joining any of the clubs this term? Lana’s doing track.”

Korra turns away, suppressing a sigh, and Pete bristles slightly.

“What about basketball?” He suggests. “Bet you’d look good in the kit…”

Korra grimaces slightly, but doesn’t move. The bus begins to cross over a river, the bridge high above, the water below treacherous.

Pete slaps Korra’s shoulder again, sharp and insistent.

“Come on. What you waiting for?”

Several seconds pass, before Pete turns away, shaking his head. Korra doesn’t miss the muttered _“Bitch.”_

The front right wheel of the bus blows out with a sudden _crack_ , and the driver curses, eyes wide, as he struggles to maintain control. Cars veer out of the way as the bus slides back and forth across lanes, the sound of blaring horns and screaming teenagers melding together as the bus crashes through the barrier and hurtles down into the water below.

The water’s up to waist level in mere moments, freezing, and Korra turns left and right in her seat, watching as Lana clutches her forehead, bleeding from the crash, as Pete – _where is Pete_ –

The water’s still rising, and the smaller, younger kids are already up to their necks. Korra takes one last look around at the horrified faces, and rises from her chair, half walking, half swimming towards the back of the bus. She forces the rear door open, and disappears without hesitation into the rush of water that spills in.

Several seconds later, the bus breaks the surface of the river, pushed up and out onto the soggy bank as the water beneath it swells and forces the vehicle out. The water drains from the bus as quickly as it came, leaving spluttering, shuddering teenagers in its wake. Lana and the others collect themselves, then realise two of their number are still missing. They turn, and watch as Korra emerges from the depths, hair and clothes plastered to her skin.

She and Lana stare at each other for several moments, before Korra turns back to the water and hurls herself back in. Teenagers crowd around the rear exit, watching anxiously.

After a few terse moments, Korra emerges again, hauling all one-hundred seventy pounds of Pete Ross to the surface.

* * *

“My son was _on_ that bus, Jonathan,” Pete’s mother insists, sitting in the Kent's living room. Beside her, Pete sits, still a little damp and more than a little “He _saw_ what Korra did – how she saved his life, the lives of everyone there!” Her eyes are wide with biblical fervour, her hands too steady, too self-assured for Jonathan’s liking on the cup of coffee Martha hands her.

“Now,” Jonathan begins, attempting to salvage the situation, attempting to fix what can’t be fixed, “I’m sure what he saw was just –“

“It was an _act of God_ , Jonathan,” Pete’s mother says, eyeing him with deadly serious eyes. “And everyone else on the bus saw! The Lang girl, even!”

Jonathan’s eyes flash over to the nearest window – he can make out Korra sitting back against the withered, warped stump of the old oak.

“I think this is blowing it a bit out of proportion…,” Martha chimes in, all for naught.

“No, it’s not. And this isn’t the first time Korra’s acted strange – remember the bonfire? Or last winter, when the rainstorms hit?”

Jonathan can only listen to the woman telling him Korra is some kind of holy child for so long before he has to get out of the room.

He excuses himself under some false pretence he doesn’t care to put much thought into, and heads outside. When he steps out onto the porch, Korra isn’t against the tree stump, rather sitting on the back of the truck, legs swinging slowly, awkwardly, her long chestnut locks somewhat distressed from anxious but gentle tugging.

Jonathan lingers beside the truck for several moments, silent, and he can’t help but remember the first of these confrontations. Jonathan suddenly remembers the fear that flared into life back then, all those years ago when Korra first showed him and Martha the fire inside herself.

“Korra...,” he breathes, swallowing. “We talked about this.”

She draws in on herself in front of him, hugging her knees to her chest.

“I know,” she mutters. “But –“

“There’s no _but_ about it, Korra,” Jonathan cuts her off, his tone far too harsh for several moments. He curses himself, and tries to compose himself before he speaks, to school himself into something his daughter will be more receptive to.

“Korra, you need to keep this side of yourself a _secret…_ ,” Jonathan finally breathes.

“I couldn’t just let them _die_ in that _river…,_ ” Korra murmurs, loosening up somewhat, lowering her legs.

Jonathan’s at a loss for words. “I…don't know. I think you should've...no,” he murmurs, his words drifting off as he tries to keep a handle on his composure.

Korra fixes him with a surprised, almost disgusted look nonetheless. Jonathan shrugs, helpless, and runs a hand through his hair, sighing.

“Look, Korra, I’m just a farmer, I’m just a father – what you are is something else entirely…I don’t know how this goes, the other dads, they make sure the kids come home before curfew, they…rent the prom outfits, they..."

Korra's giving him a weird look and he realises he's rambling again.

He takes a deep breath in, and speaks. "Look, when the world finds out about you, what you can do it’s gonna change everything. Our beliefs, our notions of humanity, _everything…_ ”

“So I’m not a kid, then?” Korra turns, stepping off the truck and rounding on Jonathan with aggression and fear seldom seen. “I’m…big and confusing and I’m gonna change things? What does that even mean? _What am I_?”

Jonathan's face tightens.

* * *

 

Minutes later, Jonathan grunts as he pulls back the chain exposing the cellar of the barn. Korra could probably do it easily, she’s frighteningly strong for her age and weight - but Jonathan feels it’s his duty as a father to show his child this. He’d have Martha here beside him if he could, but someone needs to keep Mrs. Ross at bay.

He flicks on a flashlight as he steps down into the musty cellar, Korra following him closely. To the immediate right is a corkboard, peppered with newspaper clippings of UFO sightings, lights in the sky and similar phenomena. The tabletop below is littered with old pens, scraps of paper and unused tools.

In the centre of the cellar, lies a boxy form, covered by a tarp. Jonathan waits by the stairs, and lets Korra move forward, run her fingers over the tarp, and finally _pull._

Underneath is a crib, a cot carved from what looks like yellowing bone. The sides and interior are draped in dusty furs, and the bone is painted with a mix of what Korra can recognise as Chinese symbols and emblems she can’t place.

“We found you in this...,” Jonathan begins, watching as Korra traces the shape and curves of the crib with tentative, disbelieving fingers. “Martha was tending to the crops during the winter solstice, and then there was this… _light_ …a beam stretching into the sky. Lit up everything for miles around. We followed it to the source, and when it vanished, it left _you._ We thought the government were going to come around, maybe some UFO chasers, but…no-one ever did.”

Korra turns back to her father, only to be handed a roll of rich navy cloth. “You were bundled in this blanket,” Jonathan goes on, trying to ignore Korra’s obvious signs of discomfort.

 _One way or another,_ Jonathan thinks, _she has to know._

“Martha says that blanket was made for you by…by your mother. I asked her how she knew, she said she just did. Women just know things sometimes,” he shrugs, waving it off. “But we got your name from it.”

Korra turns the blanket over in her hands, watching as Chinese characters, embroidered in rich silver thread, catch the low light.

“Martha took a bit of Chinese in college – she was able to translate that into _Korra.”_

His daughter swallows, her grip on the blankets loose. Jonathan shoves his hands into his pockets, moving closer to the crib.

“We chipped off a fragment of the crib – it’s made of bone. But I took it to a biologist at Kansas State – DNA wasn’t from any animal or creature on record,” he murmurs, watching as Korra turns to him with wide eyes.

“It’s a way of saying that it’s not from this world, Korra. And neither are you.”

Korra hunches over slightly, dropping the blanket to the floor, hugging herself.

“You’re the answer, Korra. You’re the answer to ‘Are we alone in the universe?”

“No, I’m not,” Korra breathes. “I’m Korra. I’m your daughter, Mom’s daughter –“

“Korra, sweetheart –“ Jonathan steps forward, encircling his daughter in his arms. She hugs him tightly, hiding her face in his jacket

“You _are_ our daughter. Nothing will ever change that. Nothing," he murmurs, stroking her hair gently. 

"But you’re also _so much more._ And I have to believe you were sent here for a _reason._ All these abilities, these gifts, one day it’s gonna all make sense, and when that day comes, you’ll have to stand proud in front of the rest of the human race or _not._ ”

* * *

As days turn into weeks, into months and then into years, it becomes readily apparent that Korra doesn’t leap at the opportunity to embrace her newly discovered roots. Despite the fact that she readily takes up Chinese, albeit upon subtle insistence from Martha, she buries herself in All-American culture and sports with a desperation that isn’t lost on either of her parents.

However, as she grows older, that too is lost to her.

Over the course of her sixteenth summer, her strength rapidly increases, to the point where she’s able to bench-press a five-ton car without much effort.

Once she’s able to lift one in each hand, she finally gives, and abandons all of her athletic pursuits.

Jonathan wonders if it’s because there’s no challenge in the games anymore – Martha believes it’s out of fear that Korra may end up exposing herself, or worse – hurting one of the other players in the process.

Korra’s nothing short of dramatic about it, though. Despite putting on a brave face as she boxes away her football, basketball and MMA gear, Martha finds Korra furiously contemplating incinerating all of it in a frustrated rage, and it’s only after she convinces her daughter otherwise that Korra collapses against her, weeping bitterly.

Both Jonathan and Martha come to the painful realisation that they’re losing their daughter, and watch helplessly as Korra seeks other escapes.

The typical teenage hurdles of alcohol and drugs are a frightening possibility, but Martha is nearly bowled over by relief when she realises the reason Korra’s staying out so late.

Boys.

And girls.

She doesn’t want to confront Korra about it – it’s a perfectly normal teenage thing to do, but she is afraid that Korra’s naturally volatile personality won’t handle the rollercoaster of romantic angst like a typical teenager would.

Jonathan reminds her that there's _no such thing_ , and they decide to give their daughter the benefit of the doubt, making a point of keeping an eye on her just in case. 

Over the course of several months, the two find out several things about their daughter’s preferences; firstly, that she doesn’t discriminate between male or female; secondly, that she’s fiercely loyal to whoever she happens to be seeing at the time; and thirdly, that she has something of an obsession with black hair.

Nearly every boy or girl that she’s with has to have a head of lustrous black hair. It seems like such a minor detail, but after years of watching their daughter struggle with atypical challenges and circumstances, Martha and Jonathan take a disproportionate amount of joy in the fact that Korra has a _type._

Still, she isn’t so head-over-heels for anyone that she trusts them with the truth about herself.

Korra confesses one night, watching the sun disappear behind the horizon from a seat on the porch, her father sat beside her, that it feels like she’s lying through her teeth about who she really is, to people that deserve to know everything.

Jonathan doesn’t know how to properly phrase an educated reply, so he simply tells Korra to go with her gut, and silently prays in the days afterward that Korra doesn’t.

The thought that Korra should never love another that much leaves an awful, bitter taste in his mouth, but this is Midwestern America – he’s seen how Korra masterfully dances around revealing her sexuality to less approving parties, but there isn’t much she can do against the likes of Mrs. Ross and her like-minded friends who regard Korra like an oncoming storm.

* * *

Halfway through her eighteenth year, both Martha and Jonathan are relieved to see that Korra’s finally settled down. Her grades, whilst far from flawless, linger in the high B’s and low A’s, and she takes interest in both the study of both Ancient Civilisations and Journalism. Korra tells Martha at one point that Journalism is a field that could let her do _something_ of meaning, _something_ to help the world at large.

 _How_ she’ll go about that, Korra hopes, will become apparent as she pursues it into college.

However, it seems that Korra doesn’t need to wait that long to gain an introduction to the field – a small competition held amongst the school’s Journalism class results in Korra and several others winning a trip to Metropolis, to get firsthand work experience at the _Daily Planet_.

By the time she makes it home to tell her parents, Korra is practically bouncing off the walls with excitement.

Both Martha and Jonathan are happy for her, but they can’t deny the apprehension about letting Korra out of their reach for a week. Still, they watch her pack her bags, her clothes and her laptop with the silent resolve to _let her have this, at least._ They wave her off with wide smiles, praying the tall skyscrapers and bright lights of the city won’t bring out anything unusual in their daughter.

Korra spends most of the bus ride in comfortable silence, flicking through the _Daily Planet_ website, learning what she can about the paper and its staff.

Of particular note is their star reporter – one Lois Lane, two-time Pulitzer winner. Korra remembers analysing her articles for several assignments – they were engaging, and when they weren’t exposing corporate secrets they were drawing attention to injustices in every corner of the globe.

Korra hopes she’ll run into her at some point in the trip, provided they don’t waste her and the other’s time with tours and sightseeing trips around the city. By the time the bus pulls to a stop outside a three-star hotel, Korra’s already written up three pages of questions she has for the reporter.

She and the rest of the group are shepherded into their rooms, and after leaving their bags behind, follow the Journalism teacher out onto the streets again to begin the trip into the center of the city, where the _Planet_ awaits.

Korra’s been to Metropolis several times before – but those visits were long ago, the most recent one being when she was twelve. Now the city seems like so much more as Korra takes her surroundings in, often having to dash to catch up to the teacher. Every corner bursts with activity, far more lively than Smallville on its best days. Sunlight glints off the windows of the towering buildings, and even across the bay, smoggy Gotham City seems attractive in the early afternoon light.

When they finally arrive at the _Planet,_ Korra’s already got her phone out, taking pictures. She spends at least a solid minute photographing the bronze globe inside the lobby before the teacher has to call out to beckon her over to the elevator. If Korra’s bothered by the chuckles and whispers of her classmates, she doesn’t show it – she’s too busy waiting for the elevator doors to open out onto the newsfloor.

When they do, the teacher makes sure that the group doesn’t go anywhere – after slowly shepherding them out into the middle of the room, they wait for several minutes until their liaison, a short, bright eyed woman with straight black hair and the name _Jenny Jurwich_ on her press badge, comes to greet them.

Korra hangs on her every word, and already has a notepad out, scribbling in anything that could be of the smallest importance. Despite the fact that Jenny’s clearly stalling for time as she leads them around the building on a terribly long tour, dodging as many questions as she can from the wide eyed students about meeting the staff or maybe even writing their own pieces, Korra’s still engaged even as her classmates turn most of their attention to their phones.

However, after two days of getting virtually nothing in the way of meaningful work, Korra’s patience finally wears out. She splits off from the group, ducking away under the pretence of a bathroom break, before heading towards the newsfloor again.

Korra’s found that as long as you look like you know where you’re going, and don’t appear lost or hesitant, you won’t stick out all that much in the workplace; but on her second lap of the newsfloor, a deep, rough voice calls out to her, from inside the editor’s office.

Korra stays still for several moments, apprehension bubbling in her gut, before she strides in, head held high and chin pointed outwards.

Perry White, the editor of the _Daily Planet,_ regards her like one would a particularly interesting piece of belly button fluff. He narrows his eyes at her, looking her over, almost as if he’s trying to decipher all there is to know about her. Finally, he speaks after what feels like a small eternity.

“There a reason why you’re not with your group, kid?”

His rough, forward tone is difficult to respond to at first, and Korra stumbles over her reply, cursing the stutter that finds its way into her voice.

“Y-yeah. Yes…sir,” she manages, beginning to squirm underneath the man’s piercing gaze.

“Which is?”

“…I’m trying to do some actual work,” Korra replies, taking pride in the fact that she doesn’t trip over her words.

Perry frowns, as if he’s having difficulty comprehending Korra’s words. It makes her feel incoherent, moronic, and she barely manages to stop the indignant scowl threatening to form.

“But…you’re not here to actually _do_ work, kid. You’re here to see _how_ to do it,” Perry retorts, settling his elbows on his desk and leaning forwards. “I mean, did you get confused or what?”

“I wanted to…,” the words die in Korra’s throat as she grapples with the idea of what she really wants to do, the idea that’s been driving her for years now.

“I just want to make a difference, sir,” Korra finally announces, expression and tone resolute.

“Make a difference?” Perry echoes, raising his eyebrows. “You sound like Lane on her first day.” He rises from his chair, and begins to slowly pace around the office, circling Korra like a predator eying fresh game.

“I’m gonna give you a piece of advice, kid, if only because I admire the brass you have to come striding into the newsroom like you own it,” Perry begins. “You wanna make a difference? Don’t do _this._ ”

Perry indicates the men and women working beyond his office, typing furiously to meet deadlines, shuffling photos, answering phones and chugging a seemingly infinite supply of coffee _._

“Inevitably, for most of you hopeful youngster types, this quickly becomes just _work,_ just a _paycheck._ Nevermind that print’s dying, nevermind that some activist or personality gets more than their fair share of attention because they type buzzwords the loudest – it’s far too difficult to get to a point where people are willing to listen to you these days.”

Korra listens, steadily bristling all the while. “So you think I can’t handle all of this?” She murmurs, narrowing her eyes at the editor, who shakes his head.

“You seem confident enough. Driven, if I’m being generous,” he replies. “I’m not saying you _can’t_ – just that you _probably won’t_ follow through with this. And in all honesty, I won’t blame you. You’ll be spinning your wheels for years before you get anywhere close to being heard,” Perry concludes, sitting back in his chair with a grunt.

“You want to make a difference? Go out and collect for charity or something. Wager you’ll change more out there than you would in here. Now get out of my office and off this floor before I have you ejected from the building.”

* * *

Korra spends the evening in as dignified a huff as she can manage. She’s dour all the way through lunch and dinner, but finally, she boils over and decides to take a breather, evading her teachers and leaving the hotel with her hood drawn up and her headphones blasting at a dangerously loud volume.

She walks without direction or purpose, simply trying to come to grips with the fact that the editor-in-chief of the _Daily Planet_ basically told her to give up on her dreams and aspirations for the simple fact that she probably wouldn’t get there.

 _What kind of ass-backwards reasoning is that?_ Korra seethes, looking down at the sidewalk in front of her.

She eyes a lonely drinks can, and gives it a fierce, frustrated kick. The can spirals through the air at terrifying speed, and smashes through the window of an apartment at the end of the block.

The anger in Korra's gut simmers down quickly as screams and curses of surprise begin to echo out from the apartment, and she immediately bolts, disappearing down the street.

Before long, she’s in a somewhat seedier part of town, and she can’t help but wonder if she’s walked all the way across the bay into Gotham without realising it.

As she looks around, trying to see anything that she might recognise as a landmark, the all-encompassing, terrifying fact that _she has no idea where she is_ sinks in.

Korra decides to come back the way she came, and retraces her steps as best she can, drawing her hood tight around her face. As she makes her way across a mostly deserted bridge, pitch-black water flowing beneath, she catches sight of something suspicious – a thirty-something redhead is being pursued at a distance by a group of at least seven men.

Korra’s face tightens, and she presses on. _They’re probably just a group of guys out on the town,_ she reasons.  _They're just going the same way as her, that's all._

However, that reason is quickly dashed when one of the men rushes up to her, and after a few seconds of confrontation, moves to grab the woman’s arm. For his efforts, he receives a blast of pepper spray to the face, and Korra swallows as she watches the rest of the men run forward, surrounding the woman.

Korra looks around, searching for help that isn’t coming, and then looks back at the woman as voices begin ringing through her head, deafening.

_You have to keep this side of yourself a secret._

_You want to make a difference?_

_You’ll have to stand proud in front of the human race or not._

Flames explode into life in Korra’s hands, and she leaps forward with a shout.

Two of the men turn, their faces quickly twisting with shock and fear, shadowed by the bright flames as Korra punches out. The fire lashes at their feet, and causes the gang to scatter as Korra stops in front of the woman, standing defiant.

One of the men produces a knife. As he lunges towards her with a wild swing, Korra knocks him back onto his rear with a firm blast of air, the knife clattering out of reach. Two more attempt to seize her outstretched arms, but find themselves hurled away, up and over the sides of the bridge as Korra’s unnatural strength becomes apparent.

A quick flash and _click_ distracts Korra for the briefest of moments, and she glances back at the woman.

 _Shit. Is she taking photos?_ Korra wonders, incredulous, before she turns back to the remaining men just in time to see one of them produce a pistol. Her eyes widen, and she reaches out towards the road, before pulling back and tearing a chunk of asphalt out.

Korra hefts it in front of her like a shield and charges.

The gun’s _crack_ is nearly deafening, echoing in the dead silence of the night. As bullets crunch against Korra’s impromptu shield, she grunts and slings one arm forward in a punch, propelling the chunk of rock towards her attacker. The gunman squawks as the projectile smashes against him, knocking him onto his back and leaving only one more man.

He and Korra lock eyes for a brief moment.

The man then promptly turns around and breaks into a sprint, panting as he leaves Korra and the other woman behind.

Korra exhales, relief flooding into her. She turns to face the woman, who opens her mouth to speak.

Before she can get a word out, another _crack_ splits the air. Korra whirls around, backing up as the gunman from before fires again and again, inaccurate but still dangerous.

She all but shoves the other woman out of the way as bullets spark off the metal railings to her side and behind her. The gunman aims straight at her, and Korra's heart leaps into her throat as she unleashes one last tongue of fire at the same time the trigger is pulled.

The fire scorches the man's arm, but it's too late - the bullet just narrowly grazes Korra's arm and she reels back, yelling. As the man screams in pain, he lets off a second, wild shot - the bullet clips a signpost directly beside her face and sends her stumbling back, shielding her face with her hands.

With a yell and a stunning lack of coordination, she blindly stumbles back over the railing and into the freezing waters below.

* * *

When she comes to, she’s not alone. There’s something hovering above her, but the shape is an indistinct blur of red and yellow, marred by the splitting headache that feels like it's hollowing out her brain.

Korra groans, and holds a hand in front of her eyes for a moment, but when she lowers it, the form has disappeared.

Korra curses, and sits up slowly, the ground wet beneath her hands, shifting as she moves, almost like -

_Snow?_

Korra pulls herself to her feet as quickly as she can, and looks around frantically. Metropolis in the nighttime is gone, replaced with icy plains as far as the eye can see, the sun beating down on her from above. Suddenly, she remembers the gun in the man's hand, and glances down at her sleeve. 

The sleeve is torn, but the wound beneath is far smaller than she expected, a shallow graze that's only slightly bleeding. Korra blinks, before looking back up at her surroundings.

Her eyes widen as she scans the endless tundra, and she looks around, fear and anxiety building to breaking point.

“Hello!” The voice comes, cheerful and apparently disembodied.

Korra yelps, and stumbles back, landing flat on her ass in the snow, searching for the source of the voice.

“W-who said that?” She calls, swallowing and trying not to curl into a terrified, undignified heap.

“I did,” the voice replies, from behind her this time.

Korra slowly turns, and looks up at the tall figure behind her, dressed in red and yellow saffron silks. The man is bald, but fresh-faced, with a neatly groomed chinstrap and what appears to be a blue arrow tattooed onto his forehead, pointing downward.

Korra swallows, and rises to her feet, locking eyes with the stranger.

“I realise this must be startling – take your time,” he advises, a twinkle in his eye. Korra blinks, still off-balance from the whole city-now-icy tundra deal, but manages to find the mental faculty for a few words.

“Who are you?” Korra murmurs, barely audible.

The man smiles softly. “I am your predecessor, Korra. His spirit. My name is Aang.”

Korra’s eyes narrow in confusion.

“Predecessor?” Korra echoes, brow furrowing as she struggles to understand. Suddenly, an idea occurs - that this man, who’s appeared from _nowhere_ and is claiming to be a spirit, might _know_ something about her. 

Korra stands straight and meets his gaze.

“Do you…know me? Who I am? What…I am?” She breathes.

Aang nods, still smiling.

Korra swallows.

“I don’t know where to start,” she mumbles, looking around nervously. “I have so many questions. Where do I come from? Why can I do what I do?”

Suddenly, their surroundings shift, and Aang and Korra are standing atop the precipice of a great mountain, staring down at an expansive city below. Flying craft, similar to blimps, dot the skyline, and a tall statue stands tall on an island in the middle of the bay.

“You came from a world much like this Earth,” Aang begins, “but smaller. Less diverse, and yet, at the same time, immeasurably different. Our race has the unique ability to harness one of four elements to our needs – be it fire, air, water or earth. And it is the Avatar’s sole ability to harness all four simultaneously.”

Korra takes a moment to stare down at the city, before replying. “So…,” she begins, turning back to Aang, “I’m this…Avatar?”

Aang nods. “Yes. _Avatar Korra._ ”

Korra murmurs the title to herself, feeling how it rolls off her tongue, acclimatising herself to the idea. “And you’re _Avatar Aang_ , then?” She asks, watching as Aang nods, his gentle smile constant.

Suddenly, she feels the need to interject as she realises something.

"Why am I only seeing you now? Why not sooner?" Korra asks, narrowing her eyes. "It's been a funny eighteen years, I'd have appreciated the heads-up."

Aang's eyes crinkle in amusement. "You're only seeing me now because you have accessed the Avatar State for the first time. It's a kind of...defense mechanism that kicks in when you're in danger."

"I fell off the bridge...," Korra whispers.

"The excitement of the fight, coupled with the panic you felt when you fell triggered it," Aang says. "It will ensure your safety. It's also opened your spiritual connection to me and the rest of our predecessors."

"...Huh," Korra thinks for a moment, as Aang watches her. "Okay," she nods. "So...what does this Avatar  _do_ , exactly?"

 

“The Avatar exists to maintain balance between the Four Nations – the Fire Nation, Earth Empire, Air Nation and Water Tribes,” Aang elaborates. Below them, the mountain top and city begin to fade away. Korra looks around, raising her eyebrows as the view replaced by a vision of Aang sitting at a large table.

This new Aang seems younger, fresher, his beard absent as he negotiates between a tall, pale man in red and gold with an angry burn scar over the left side of his face, and a smaller, less imposing man in green and yellow silks.

“And what happened to you?” Korra asks, watching as the three men at the table remain oblivious to her and the older Avatar.

“Time, Korra,” Aang replies, his smile finally disappearing from his face. “Time is the one enemy even the Avatar cannot defeat. I passed away in middle age due to…complications in my youth. That’s when you were born.”

The setting changes again, and suddenly, Korra and Aang are shadowed by firelight.

They’re inside a cramped, dark hut made of wood, clay and animal skins, and a furious storm rages outside. In front of them, a tall, imposing man with dark skin, dressed in blue fabrics and white furs tends over a woman in bed with the same dark skin and hair, dressed in only a thin blue slip, cradling a crying bundle of fabric to her breast.

Korra’s eyes widen, and she steps forward, one hand coming up to cover her mouth as she struggles to comprehend what she’s seeing.

Even though it was painfully obvious at an early age that she was adopted, Korra’s spent a lifetime calling Jonathan and Martha her parents. Seeing her _birth,_ seeing these two people who brought her into existence and gave her a name – it’s very difficult to stomach.

Aang notices her discomfort, but keeps talking. “You were born to Tonraq and Senna of the Southern Water Tribe. At this point, neither of them knew you were the Avatar, only that you were their daughter. As was tradition, you would not discover your true purpose until sixteen years of age, and from there you would be taken to be trained in the four elements.”

 _But obviously, something went wrong,_ Korra surmises. She turns back to Aang, affecting as composed an expression as she can.

“What happened?” She asks, and watches as Aang’s expression becomes grim.

“An anarchist cult – the Red Lotus – somehow managed to divine your true nature only months after you were born. They were intent on either capturing and raising you to champion their beliefs, or killing you,” he murmurs, and Korra swallows, flinching as the interior of the cabin turns into a vision of Tonraq and Senna trekking through a blizzard, the months-old Korra secure in her mother’s arms beneath several blankets and furs.

“They hunted your parents across the nations, and, after many months, they realised they couldn’t protect you forever. They travelled to the Northern Water Tribe, and used ancient rituals to spirit you worlds away.”

Again, the surroundings change. Tonraq and Senna stand at the rim of a pond inside a cramped, green oasis which is itself inside of an expansive, icy dome. Out on the water, a cradle of bone drifts, surrounded by golden light – and inside, the infant Korra sleeps, even as she and the cradle melt into shimmering gold. Suddenly, the entrance to the dome, crudely obstructed by a frozen wave of water, explodes inwards.

As the two parents turn around to face their pursuers, the crib and the child inside vanish, golden flecks of light disappearing into the water. The image melts away, leaving Korra and Aang at the top of the mountain once more, the city beneath them.

Korra’s expression is tight, fraught with barely contained emotion. “You’ve told me all this…,” she begins, her voice shaking slightly, “but that isn’t my world. Not anymore – and I don’t think I can bring balance to the one I’m on now. I don’t even know if I  _should_."

Aang reaches out, and rests his hands on Korra’s shoulders. The hands feel alarmingly real for someone who claims to be a spirit.

“Earth is different from our world, it’s true,” he begins. “But ultimately I believe that’s irrelevant. The Avatar is a concept, a symbol, an ideal of balance and hope.” Korra meets Aang’s resolute gaze, and thinks on these words.

“If you want to make a difference to the lives of people, Korra, _that’s_ what you can bring them.”

* * *

Days later, Korra steps off the bus, to the chorus of reprimands from her teacher. The Kent Farm lies several hundred feet away, but she turns and begins to walk down the road, Aang’s words still racing through her mind.

 _“The possibilities are endless, Korra,”_ Aang had said. _“Your physical passage through the depths of the spirit world has enhanced your bending, strengthening your muscles, your skin._ ”

When Korra finally stops walking, she looks over a deserted, barren field of dirt, the crops of this particular plot having died long ago.

 _“You’ve grown stronger here than any Avatar before you. But the only way to know how strong is to keep testing your limits._ ”

Korra sets her bag down, and steps onto the field. She stares up at the clear blue sky, the clouds and the sun drifting far above, challenging her, taunting her.

Korra stares down at the dirt beneath her, then back at the sky. She grits her teeth in concentration, and _jumps_.

The earth beneath her explodes and shatters, propelling her high. She arcs through the air, rising at least a thousand feet. Before long, however, the ground is rising up to meet her again, and Korra swallows, her eyes widening –

The earth craters and warps beneath her, almost like a trampoline as she unconsciously bends it to absorb her impact. Too high on adrenaline to stop now, she launches herself again, rocketing upwards, several hundred feet higher than previous.

An idea blossoms at the back of Korra’s mind, and as the wind whips at her face and hair, she raises her arms in front of her. She wills the air around her to push her onwards and upwards, and for several, glorious moments, she can feel herself rising, soaring through the sky.

A breathless, giddy laugh escapes her, but it quickly morphs into a scream as she plummets back down to the ground, crashing into the dirt and sending up a tall cloud of dust and soil.

Korra pulls herself up out of the new crater, spitting out dirt and wiping mud from her arms and chest. She sighs, and stands on the rim of the crater, the sky still beyond her.

_“At the core of the Avatar’s being is the struggle for balance. When you finally realise this, and finally master all elements – you will accomplish wonders.”_

Korra closes her eyes, and lowers herself to one knee, resting her fists on the ground. She focuses on the earth beneath her, the air all around, and the fire in the sky and her gut. The ground begins to tremble, then shake –

Korra rockets upwards, the ground exploding beneath her as she shoots up into the air, fire streaming from her feet and hurling her higher and higher into the air. Air currents push her onward, and she arcs through the air, _flying._

She lets out a youthful, irreverent shout of excitement as she turns and soars north, across the wide expanse of Kansas farmland. She arcs and turns, spins and loops, fire and air working in tandem to propel her throughout the sky.

And as she does, her eyes glimmer with unnatural white light, finally building to the point where she shoots across the horizon with such blinding speed that she leaves a sonic boom in her wake.

* * *

Lois Lane waits at one of the many office printers in the _Daily Planet_ newsroom, and when the machine finally finishes printing out her documents, she retrieves them as quickly as she can, hurrying back to her desk and hunching over then, almost protective.

She thumbs through the photos of several days ago, running her eyes over the figure in the hooded sweatshirt, fire streaming from their fists, earth bending to their will and shielding them from gunfire.

“Now…,” she breathes, setting the photos out in front of her, “What the hell’s your story?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What? Another chapter? Now? Who'da thought it? Anyway, as you can see, this thing is basically gonna go Asami - Korra - Asami - Korra in terms of setting, POV and such. Hope you enjoy what's to come!


	3. Interlude - Lin and Kya

_Batman and Superman are property of Warner Bros. and DC Comics._

_Avatar: The Last Airbender and The Legend of Korra are propery of Nickelodeon and Viacom._

* * *

**_DAWN_ **

* * *

 

Lin Beifong is a creature of habit. Her occupation demands disciplined routine, and she’s had years to cultivate it.

At five-thirty AM, she rises, ignoring the joints that seem to get stiffer every day, and pushes herself through a series of calisthenics exercises. She powers through several sets of push-ups, crunches, and if her shoulders feel like they’re exploding by the time she finishes her pull-ups she doesn’t show it on her face.

She shambles into the kitchen, pulling on a long, mothbitten robe, graying hair mussed from sleep. The boys don’t wake until six-thirty, so she has time to put a pot of coffee. She fumbles with the matches as she tries to light the stove, but eventually the coffee is bubbling away atop it.

Lin sits back in a chair at the kitchen table, and rests her arms on the weathered wood. She finds herself staring at her hands – the calluses and scarred knuckles seem all the more prominent these days. She sighs, and leans back in the chair – and when she looks at the clock atop the kitchen counter, and realises she’s drifted off for twenty minutes, she curses and rises to her feet, making a beeline for her room. Once there she half-wrenches the door of the closet open, and lifts out her metalbender armour – the tempered steel quickly wraps around her body with a series of satisfying metallic sounds.

She spends the absolute minimum time needed in the bathroom to fix her hair into something respectable, and spends as little time as possible looking at her reflection. When she emerges, she can already hear the muffled sounds of activity coming from the boy’s rooms – and remembers that she hasn’t made breakfast yet.

By the time Mako staggers into the kitchen, bleary-eyed and wild-haired, there’s a steaming plate of slightly blackened – _crispy,_ Lin insists, _crispy_ \- breakfast waiting for him on the table. He slumps into the chair, and Lin struggles not to wrinkle her nose as he creases the police trainee uniform he’s wearing.

“Long night?” Lin asks, moving to get another plate ready. Mako looks up, slowly, sleep still slowing every action. He blinks as he attempts to form a reply, half-heartedly forking an egg into his mouth.

“Kinda.” he murmurs. “Toza had to do maintenance on the training rooms, so we took our evening practice late. Didn’t sleep well.”

Lin frowns. “You didn’t need to stay – you could have used that time to study for your theory test – it’s next week,” she reminds him, her tone a gentle reprimand.

Mako shrugs slowly. “I would have, but you know me, Bo and Hasook practice together. And they’ve got no reason to skip practice, so –“

“Bolin isn’t training to be a cop. You are,” Lin replies. “Best thing you can get whilst you’re still training for your position is a good night’s rest – and I’m speaking from experience.”

Mako nods again, swallowing down a slice of bacon. “I know, you’re right…if the exam and the qualifiers weren’t so close together, I’d know what to focus on, when to take breaks, but -”

“Life throws curveballs. Constantly,” Lin interjects, maybe a little too harshly for seven in the morning. “All we can do is make the best of it. You’ve been able to balance your commitments so far – but have you thought about what you’re going to do once you get your position?”

Mako stares down at his eggs in glum confusion, and Lin feels a pang of guilt for making him face this unpleasant fact. Better to get this over with, Lin reasons. Better that he have a plan rather than struggling to keep everything just so, and letting life overwhelm him in the process.

“I think – maybe, if we win – no, even if we place high, I can leave the team with no regrets. But I don’t know if Bo would like that…,” he drifts off, brooding.

“Bolin’s a tough kid. He’ll manage. We always do,” Lin replies, attempting a soft smile, before glancing up at the clock. Her eyes widen slightly, and she sighs. Time seems to be getting away from her more and more.

“Listen, I need to go. Can I trust you to take care of your brother’s breakfast?” Lin asks, rising from her chair and moving over to grab her coat from the hanger near the door of the apartment. Mako nods, chewing, and Lin moves towards the door. She opens it, and moves to step outside, but not before casting one final glance at Mako, and at the hallway leading down to Bolin’s room.

She steels herself, and heads out. There’s work to be done.

* * *

 Lin’s been chief of the RCPD for more than twenty years – she’d like to think she’s got the feel, the rhythm of the station, if not the city, down pat. And, for the first few hours, it seems like a regular day – she spends the time filling out the most banal paperwork imaginable, sipping on lukewarm tea. When the last of the paperwork’s been sent off, she’s left idle.

Boredom finally takes over and she spends twenty minutes fiddling with a chunk of meteorite Suyin sent her last year. To this day, Lin isn’t sure if it was meant to be a present or some kind of peace offering.

 _Empress of the Earth Empire, and she sends me a rock,_ Lin thinks, dryly. _At the very least she could send us some Upper Ring tea. Hell, I’d settle for Middle Ring._

She bends it into a caricature of her sister’s head, and flicks it, taking what childish amusement she can from the way the head’s nose and cheek deform like putty.

When she tires of torturing the tiny facsimile of her sister, she bends the metal into a chunk once more and tosses it back into a drawer beneath her desk. She stalks out of her office, grunting as she tries to work out a crick in her neck.

As she moves through the corridors, the station feels more…lively, to an extent. She’s constantly stepping to the side to allow officers with armfuls of paperwork and the like through, and as she decends the stairs to the ground floor of the station she discovers the reason why, her bored expression finally giving way to bemusement and shock.

At least fifty triad members, all wearing Agni Kai colours, are sitting on the chairs, on the floor, wherever there’s space. They’re all restrained – but in some cases it doesn’t seem necessary. More than a few of the triad members are near unconscious or completely out, their faces beaten bloody.

Lin notices more than a few of them have what look to be broken bones, haphazardly splinted and set. She takes some care – not much, but some – as she stalks through the group and heads toward the front desk, eying the officer flipping through towering stacks of arrest forms.

“What the hell’s all this? I wasn’t notified of any major anti-triad operations today,” Lin barks, catching the mousy officer’s attention and causing him to jerk up in his seat with a gasp.

“C-Chief. I, well, uh – “

“Uh? What’s ‘Uh?’”

Lin narrows her eyes at the officer, and his eyes dart around, nervously searching for an explanation.

“Well?” Lin asks, leaning forward, watching how the officer seems to shrink back.

“T-two of our officers were called to an Agni Kai safehouse downtown early this morning. An anonymous tip.”

Lin furrows her brow. _Anonymous?_

“When they got there, they found the occupants b-beaten into unconsciousness, and several crates of varied o-opiates. It seemed like they were getting ready to get their product out to their dealers.”

Lin crosses her arms, and glances back at the assembled mass of defeated, beaten men.

_We’ve been trying to find the central distribution point of the Agni Kais for little over a year and a half. Who the hell finds it and then leaves all these thugs and their product giftwrapped for us?_

An idea occurs to Lin. An obvious one, really.

Minutes later, she’s back in her office, phone to her ear. She’s contacted the head of the forensics team – a new department, but a dedicated one at least – for a report on the crime scene.

“Would there be anything to suggest an attack by the Equalists?” Lin asks, fumbling with the receiver for a moment. Stupid thing. “Any similarities with last year’s attack?”

“Considering – sorry, one second –“ the investigator grumbles something inaudible for a moment, maybe to another officer on site, before continuing. “Considering the lack of fatalities, and based on initial testimony from the perps that were conscious, it doesn’t seem like it. Doesn’t seem like another triad made a move on them either.”

“Well, what about the testimonies?” Lin presses on, impatient. “Anything conclusive yet?”

“Here’s the thing, Chief,” the CSI takes a brief moment to gather his thoughts, before continuing, “most of the testimonies mention no more than a few attackers. Some mention only seeing the one guy – if they even saw anything at all.”

“Well that’s a load of bisonshit,” Lin grunts. “Fifty firebenders taken out by one guy?”

“It’s what they said, Chief.”

“…Keep at it. Contact me the instant you find anything conclusive.” Lin sets the phone down with a hard _chime_ , and leans back in her office chair.

 _At least the day got interesting_ , she muses, before sitting up straight again. She resolves to call downstairs and arrange immediate and thorough questioning for any perps that are in stable enough condition to talk.

She can feel the lure of a new case setting her blood aflame again. She feels like a hunter once more.

Lin Beifong smiles.

It is not a pleasant smile.

* * *

 Kya fidgets. She can’t help it, really – she was never one for sitting still or waiting. The boat she’s on crawls across the water at a painfully slow speed, and she’s of half a mind to stand up and waterbend the boat towards their destination at top speed, other passengers be damned. Considering, however, that the other passengers include several bright-eyed tourists and a number of children, she decides against it.

She turns around from her seat on the boat, craning her neck to spy her destination.

 _I see they’ve built the guard towers even higher this time,_ she notices.

Air Temple Island is a strange thing, lingering in the city’s bay – half a sanctuary, half a prison. Tall, threatening barriers and gates border the island, and packs of White Lotus soldiers patrol both the wall and the shores below. Kya ignores them and instead tries to make out the familiar sight of the temple towers, reaching up towards the sky. The walls are so high that she has to stand up slightly and squint.

Finally, the boat approaches the island’s dock, and Kya wastes no time in stepping off the boat and back onto ground that, despite her many years away, still feels like _home_. Kya makes a beeline for the temple gates as the rest of the passengers disembark behind her, but she stops when she sees the massive, ugly checkpoint that obscures it. She barely has any time to speak before she’s escorted through the checkpoint by a thin-faced White Lotus grunt and promptly questioned and frisked while her bag’s searched.

It doesn’t hit her until she’s past the checkpoint that the feeling of _home_ has completely vanished.

Kya finds, however, that the sight of her brother, his wife and his children restores it somewhat. Meelo and Ikki rush over to her, gliding over the stones on air scooters, and Kya smiles as she crouches down slightly, trying to divide her attention equally between the two as they chatter excitedly at her. Behind them, Jinora stands beside her father and mother, far more reserved. Finally, Meelo and Ikki zoom away, and Tenzin approaches, Pema and Jinora walking behind him.

Kya looks at her brother, and he looks at her. They both immediately rush forward, embracing each other in a tight hug. Kya tries to ignore the slight tremor that she feels in her brother’s hands.

“It’s so good to see you,” Kya murmurs, as soon as they pull away from each other. She attempts a smile, but finds it doesn’t quite fit right at the moment.

“It’s been too long,” Tenzin nods, similarly stoic. “It is good of you to make the trip over here – I know it’s been rough for those travelling into the Republic.”

“It wasn’t much,” Kya shrugs. “A few mouthy border patrols, a few dodged convoys.”

She’d say something about Suyin getting paranoid, but that’s long overdue.

Tenzin’s expression is resigned, but finally something resembling a smile settles over his face.

“At least you’re here now. We’ve all been looking forward to seeing you again.” He replies. Kya glances at Pema, and they share a friendly nod. Jinora remains largely unnoticed, slinking behind her mother like a shadow.

After some more small talk, Tenzin leads her up to the main area of the compound. Kya’s gaze is almost immediately drawn to the lack of vegetation or trees – nothing to obscure the sightlines of sentries or guards, most likely.

“They had them removed last month,” Tenzin supplies, when he notices the direction of Kya’s gaze. “I protested, but they eventually got their way. They always do.”

“I don’t remember the White Lotus giving you or Dad many orders,” Kya replies, quiet and measured.

“They’re acting in our best interests,” Tenzin responds, his voice somewhat tired. “We can’t afford to debate these things, not after the latest series of attacks.”

Kya’s expression tightens. “I heard about it nearly a week after everyone else did,” she muses. “Have you heard from Izumi’s son yet?”

“Iroh?” Tenzin asks. “He’s currently on deployment, but he may be returning to the Fire Nation early to help stabilize things.”

An unspoken tension hangs in the air, until Kya gives it a voice.

“Izumi’s tough. And you know she’s even more stubborn than you were. She’ll pull through.”

Tenzin doesn’t reply, and Kya remains silent as they head into the main building of the compound. As soon as they enter the warm, wooden interiors, Pema excuses herself, Jinora following at her heels. Kya watches them leave out of the corner or her eye as Tenzin leads her towards where she’ll be staying. The walk isn’t that long, but even Kya can tell Tenzin is hurrying, can see the tension in his back.

The moment Tenzin leads her into her room, Kya slides the door shut behind her. Tenzin turns slightly, raising one eyebrow and watching her as she moves over to the bed and takes a seat.

“Talk,” she commands, motioning for him to sit in the chair at the tiny desk by the window.

“I really don’t think that’s –“ Tenzin is cut off by Kya gesturing aggressively at the chair again. He sets his jaw as he pulls the chair out and sits down, his robes pooling around him.

“What’s up?” Kya asks, leaning in, her expression softening.

Tenzin seems like he won’t respond for a moment. Kya keeps looking at him, ready and waiting. Finally, he gives in and deflates, his shoulders slumping and head bowing. He brings one hand up to rub at his eyes, and Kya sees her youngest brother again, all traces of pretence forgotten.

“It’s the kids.”

“How do you mean?” Kya asks, mildly concerned.

“It’s just – they haven’t _flown_ in so long, Kya. It’s been months since they were allowed to take their gliders out. At least a year since they took a trip on Oogi or any other bison,” Tenzin murmurs, voice tired. “And you wouldn’t think there’d be anything wrong at a glance, but I _can_ tell it’s hurting them. They miss it. And _every_ time I look at them, _every_ time I have to tell them why they can’t go up in the sky, it just hits me all over again.”

“What? That we’re fucked?” Kya asks, bluntly. Tenzin glances up, raising an unamused eyebrow, but doesn’t comment on her language.

 _Shit. He really is in trouble,_ Kya realises.

“I just _can’t_ understand –“ Tenzin rises suddenly, a surge of motion and robes, “ – how we haven’t found her yet! The one thing we need above all else…”

“For all we know the Water Tribe Avatar died young,” Kya suggests. “The White Lotus should be focusing the brunt of their search on the Earth Empire territories. As difficult as they are to cover, it’s worth a shot.”

Tenzin shakes his head, beginning to pace. “No. They _insist_ that the Water Tribe Avatar is still alive…and there’s been nothing to suggest that the cycle’s moved on. Nothing from the temples or the priests.”

Kya nods, slowly. “Well…has there been any development with the Expeditionary Force? I know they’re combing through the Fire Nation territories in the wake of the assassination attempt on Izumi…”

Tenzin keeps pacing, shaking his head again. “No. The Reds move too fast, they’re too well coordinated.” As he speaks, his voice rises and rises, frustration building. “They have agents _everywhere_ these days. If we’d caught them even five years ago, it wouldn’t have been as difficult as it is now!”

He stops pacing, and faces the window, leaning against the windowsill and letting out a deep breath. He looks out over Yue Bay and closes his eyes, his expression calming slightly as he attempts to regain his composure.

“Every day they’re out there is another day my family is in danger. I can’t bear it and neither can Pema,” he whispers, barely audible. “I go to sleep each night, I don’t know if I’ll wake up.”

“Tenzin –“ Kya stands, reaching out to him, concern plain on her face.

“I’m – I’m not ready to die. I’m n-not -” Tenzin stammers for a moment, the words stuck in his throat. “I’m not afraid of it. I just can’t stand – the _idea_ of them alone. Pema, too – I can’t even think sometimes, I’m so -“

Kya’s hand comes down on his shoulder, a gentle, reassuring pressure. Tenzin nearly crumbles underneath it.

Finally, he lets out a shuddering breath, and steps back, standing to his full, impressive height, every inch the Patriarch of the Air Nomads.

Kya looks at him, hesitating to speak.

“Are you alright?” She asks, after a brief silence. 

“I will be, when we find Zaheer and string him up,” Tenzin replies, his tone steady and final.

“No arguments there,” Kya replies, a tiny, dark smile on her face.

The two enjoy the silence for a moment, before Kya speaks again.

“So, how about dinner?”

* * *

 

Hours later, the mood is far lighter. Tenzin and Pema seem far more relaxed, The children are just as full of energy as Kya remembers – Meelo barrels around the table every other moment and Ikki just _never_ stops talking. She’s all too happy to answer question after question about what travelling through the Earth Empire was like, but her dinner’s getting cold and eventually she has to punctuate every answer with a generous helping of her meal.

Thankfully, Meelo chooses to start pestering Ikki at that moment, allowing Kya to enjoy her dinner properly.

The rest of the dinner passes in amiable, pleasant silence, and after the children leave the three adults are free to relax a little more – or at least as much as Air Nomad tradition allows. As Kya turns down a third cup of tea from Tenzin, Pema speaks up.

“So, Kya – if you don’t mind me asking, how long are you staying?” Pema asks, enjoying her own tea. “You never let us know in any of your letters.”

 _Oh. Yeah. That._ Kya sits back and meets Tenzin’s gaze for a moment. “…Actually, I’m planning on sticking around for quite a while,” she replies.

Tenzin frowns for a moment, but it changes into a smile just as quickly. “That’s surprising – but we’re more than happy to have you back at the island. Can I ask why?”

Kya clears her throat. “I’ve actually decided to put down roots. Travelling was getting too difficult, so.” She shrugs for emphasis. “I’m hoping to find a decent clinic – hopefully I can carve out a decent living here for myself.”

“So you’re not planning to stay on the island?” Tenzin asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Don’t get me wrong, I’ll definitely swing by as much as I can – but I just don’t think I could handle living here at the moment. No offence, of course.”

“None taken,” Tenzin murmurs, leaning back. He strokes his beard, thinking for a moment.

“There are a few clinics that could certainly use a healer of your calibre – I’ll see what I can do to help you out.”

“Thanks, I appreciate it. Where did you have in mind?” Kya asks.

“There’s a clinic in the Dragon Flats borough that could use some help. The neighbourhood has a very low concentration of benders, so with your skills, you’d certainly be a welcome addition,” Tenzin replies.

“Dragon Flats? Bit of a rough area.” Kya responds. “Not that I’d shy away from it, though.”

“Oh, it’s calmed down greatly since you left. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Guess I’ll start there, then.” Kya decides.

“I take it you’ll be staying with us until you get a place in the city?” Tenzin asks. “I know the kids would love to have their Aunt around.”

Kya nods, a small smile on her face.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she replies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Justice League came out! Suffice to say it gave me a bit of a second wind for writing, and I'm glad to be able to return to this. Hope you enjoy!


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